


Shut down

by JAKishu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, M/M, Sense overload, Sherlock hurt, genius, john is helping, overload, sherlock feels too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:10:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAKishu/pseuds/JAKishu
Summary: What will follow when your computer has a overload? The same what happens when the wall in Sherlock s mind breaks down. It leads to a very surprised John.





	1. Chapter 1

John's POV:

The first time it happened or better I witnessed it was a surprise for both of us. None of us was prepared and to my defense no one had told me something like that could happen.

A normal Sunday afternoon in 221B Baker Street, as normal a day as it can be with Sherlock Holmes. I was reading a novel in my chair and Sherlock was bored. It had been over a week since our last case. I can enjoy peace and quiet once in a while but Sherlock, he looked dangerously close to giving the wall a few more bullet holes.

Sherlock was on the sofa, I tried to ignore him so as not to encourage his childish behavior, but his total silence let me look up in his direction. His face was pale, even paler than usual and his eyes were showing terror. He got up or better tried to but with a pleading look to me he collapsed onto the floor, hands in his hair, eyes shut tight and screaming in pain. I have never heard someone scream like this, Sherlock's voice was raw and animalistic and it really hurt.

As I rush over to him he curls himself into a ball, tears streaming from his eyes. The man I had seen often ignoring the pain or without even flinching with broken bones or sliced skin was hurting and I felt helpless. Sherlock wasn't reacting to anything I did, only screaming in pain. I hold him to stop him from hurting himself further in his hopeless attempt to fight against whatever pain was tormenting him. As nothing I was doing was helping I called Mycroft hoping he would know what to do. Over Sherlock's screams I called him. He told me to bring Sherlock into his room and to close the curtains.

Easier said than done, Sherlock couldn't help me or stand so I had to throw him over my shoulder and bring him to his room. I noticed once again that Sherlock was much too skinny. I made a mental note to get him to eat more once he had recovered from this ordeal. I closed the curtains and waited next to Sherlock on his bed while I waited for Mycroft. He arrived seven minutes later, he was running. It was the first time I had seen the man move that fast. He sat on the bed and sent me out, closing the door I returned to the living room. The screams ebbed and changed to sobbing after twenty minutes. After another fifteen minutes a very tired looking Mycroft emerged out of the room. He sat down on the sofa where Sherlock had been bored not even an hour ago. I placed a cup of tea in front of him and he looked up at me. He nodded his thanks and took a sip.

"Is he all right?" A stupid question if Mycroft's look was anything to go by but he answered me anyway.

"He will be after he wakes up. He will be tired and have a headache but that's about it." Mycroft closed his eyes again. After he finished his tea Mycroft left the flat without offering an explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's POV:

The first thing that I realize when I wake up is the knocking pain in my head. It's what had woken me and like every time it happened I need a few minutes to find my way back to full consciousness.

John must have called Mycroft, my neck hurts from the injection with the knock out drug my brother uses to get me back. Not really a pleasant way but the only one that has worked so far. In the last thirty years we have tested many things.

The room is dark. The only light is coming from a gap under the door that tells me John is still up, waiting for me to come out or something. Getting up after one of these attacks is always a challenge but one I take without hesitation. Staying here in the darkness of my room would mean 'giving in'.

So I push myself up, gather a fresh pajama from my drawer and enter the hallway to disappear into the bathroom. A hot shower is the best thing right now. My cramped muscles start to relax and the pain in my head becomes dull. It won't go away for quite a time but in this way it is manageable. Dried and dressed in clean pajamas and dressing gown I enter the living room where a tea is waiting for me. That is so British, every problem can be solved with a cup of tea. But I'm thankful for this little sign of normality. Sitting down, I take the tea in my hands and for the first time look into my very worried looking flat mate's eyes. I see the questions and his helplessness from before aren't gone yet. How can I explain it to him? He waits until I'm ready because he knows I need the time. My brain is always so slow after one of these stupid attacks. It's because of the state the mind palace is in now: all the doors are pushed open and the contents is lying scattered around in various hallways. I have to tidy it up to be able to use it properly again. It will takes a few hours, maybe even a whole a day but it can wait now. First I have to talk or better explain to John what happened without thinking too much.

"You have questions, ask!" My voice is hoarse and it hurts when I talk but it is probably easier if I let John ask questions. I don't have to think about every possibility or how to do this but just give one answer to whatever question he will ask.

"Will it happen again and if 'yes' what can I do to help you or stop it?" I have to smile a bit, so typical John. He is always looking for a way to help people.

"It could happen very soon or never again. But I don't think I'm lucky enough to be speared form this pain." My eyes are still focused on my friend who is thinking. The tea had warmed me up, a pleasant feeling.

"Can you explain what it is and are there triggers we can avoid?" The question among all the 'what happened' questions, is a very good one.

"I don't have a name for it. It is a kind of an overload of my senses. You have to imagine how my brain works. If I were able to process all the information I get without using my sense I would need ten times the capacity my brain has right now. It's too much to handle. So I had to build a wall between my mind and the world around me. It's exhausting to keep this wall up so as to dull my senses and protect my mind from too much... too much of everything. I still manage more than the average person but sometimes the wall gets cracks in it and this always takes me by surprise, it comes without warning and it hurts, a lot. Every cell in my body hurts and that is all I know. I can't really explain it better because I can't remember." John's look is dark. There is no better word to describe the way his eyes are looking now. The feelings I can read out of him are a mix of helplessness, sadness and a bit of anger. Not against me, more a general kind of anger.

"What did Mycroft do to stop it?"

"Oh, he knocked me out with a drug. It basically separates the connection between my body and mind for long enough to stop the pain allow me to rebuilt the wall while I am still unconscious. It's not a good feeling but the most effective way have found so far. By the way, thanks for calling him and not 999." I send a bigger smile over to John to convince him he did right and that Mycroft drugging me was a normal thing.

"So, you are telling me it will probably happen again, there is no way to know when, no possibility to do something before it happens or to stop these attacks without drugging you!"

"Basically, yes." It is the only answer I can give him. What else should I say? The long conversation hurts my throat and head, and I only want to go back to relaxing in total silence.

"Okay, would you like another tea?" John stands up without waiting for an answer; he must have seen that I'm tired. Five minutes later with a new tea in my hands, dimmed light and a blanket around my shoulders my body starts to relax, I lie back against the sofa and can feel John watching over me.


	3. Chapter 3

****

John's POV:

Since the attack I keep a closer look on Sherlock. I look for signs of distress or pain or anything that could tell me he isn't feeling well. Sherlock knows I'm watching him but he never mentions it. He is like always, like before. Nothing happens for months. I start to feel safe again, still watching him but no longer afraid he will break down the next second.

Lestrade calls for a new case and as usual my flat mate pretends not to be interested. But I can see the light in Sherlock's eyes. It has been a long time without a case and after I had received the information about the crime scene it sounded more like an interesting eight rather than a dull four like our last case. So we storm down the stairs and hop into the next cab which as usual magically appears as soon as Sherlock lifts his hand. During the ride he is busy reading more about the case. I just enjoy this quiet time before the action starts. Which will probably end in a chase through London. The thought of this lets me look out of the window to hide my smile. Not everyone needs to know that I enjoy it. Of course not the dead or the bad situations we investigate, but the time with my friend, watch him do amazing things, the adrenalin that runs through our veins and the high after the success.

We arrive at the crime scene, a long-term car park. On the lowest platform was the body of a man, found by a security guard. The body was out of view of the security camera hid behind an old van which must have been there for ages.

I stand next to Lestrade and we are watching Sherlock who is leaning over the body to get every detail he can out of the dead man. After he is done he turns to me and asks for my opinion as if he needs it. But sometimes my input is helpful in some way. So as I move over to him and the body, Sherlock steps beside to make room for me.

The man was in his mid-forties, had a few more pounds as one would call attractive but he was not fat. His clothes are torn at his shoulder and under his skin around his neck light purple prints of a hand are visible. Strangulations marks, which together with the petechial marks on his eyes definitely point to strangulation.

Behind the hand marks on his neck I could also see older ones. Marks made by a rope or a belt. I stand up again, facing Sherlock who is waiting for my opinion.

"Cause of death: strangulation, the hands were used to cover up the rope marks. So he was probable hanged." Sherlock nods with his head to signal me he has come to the same conclusion. I step back again to let him do his work. I'm glad the crime scene is not too boring so that Sherlock enjoy himself at least a little bit (again I certainly do not wish for anyone to turn up dead just so that Sherlock or I can be entertained).

In one corner of the car park are a few containers. Until now ignored by the police as they had only searched the van which was hiding the body. Sherlock walks past the police officers in the direction of the containers. But he stops and not the way he usually does when talking about one of his theories or deductions. No Sherlock Holmes has just paused.

Before he can fully turn around and look fearfully into my eyes I know what is happening. I can see how the pain fills his mind and body. I start running the same second Sherlock's eyes close, his legs give up and he starts to scream.

"Call Mycroft!" I shout to Lestrade before I can lower myself next to my friend who is in agony. I try to hold him to prevent him hurting himself and I call his name but he can't hear me.

Lestrade lays a hand on my shoulder, he must have tried to tell me something but I was to concentrated focusing on Sherlock.

"Mycroft says he will need at least fifteen minutes." Lestrade's eyes tell me that it isn't the first time is a witness to this and we both feel totally helpless.

The scene had been cleared. The only ones left are Lestrade and me and of course Sherlock. His face is wet from tears, his hands pinching into his sweaty curls and after a really painful scream I have enough. So I do what I always do. Act!

I am pretty convinced that nothing I will do can possibly make it worse. I lay my hands on his wet cheeks to ground him and to make sure that if he opens his eyes he would see me. I remember what Sherlock had told me about his senses and the wall.

"Sherlock, focus on me, only me. There is nothing else, just me." I try to will my whole being on him, to make him believe I am the only thing that's there. I say it over and over again, the same sentence. The first time a bit desperately but my voice gets steadier with time. I have to be strong. Since Sherlock's wall is crumbling I now need to be the  wall that protects Sherlock against the world. I have to become everything. I have to make Sherlock focus on me.  I have no idea if what I am doing is good and helping my friend. I just continue to hold him, make him feel I am close and tell him the same thing over and over again.  "I am here, Sherlock. I am here."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's POV:

The sharp light daggers which are cutting through my every cell to hurt me are all around me. There is no place in my mind where I can hide, no place I can consider safe and no one who can save me. After all these years I know that not even Mycroft, who has a greater mind then me (I would never tell him that though, he already tells me my mind is 'close to the goldfishes'), has found something to stop it. To constantly hope would only hurt more than the pain I am feeling now. The walls are broken again. Although I tried so hard this time. I didn't want John or Lestrade (who also witnessed this once before) to see me like this but when I feel the walls crumbling it's already too late.

The clothes on my skin feel as if they are cutting into my skin or melting it away.

The light that shines into my eyes through my closed lids burns my sight.

All the noises around me, even my own heartbeat is too much and I fear that my eardrums will burst.

The smell of the city, the people around me is disgusting and I become nauseated.

And the taste, the taste on my tongue of… everything in the air… I can't describe it better as it tasting like molecules of pain.

Good thing breathing is an involuntary reflex, I'm not so sure otherwise I would be able to continue. The sharp pain is still there and I'm waiting for the darkness that follows when Mycroft give me his wonder drug. I hate this darkness, this nothingness. It is sometimes so bad that I prefer the pain, because pain shows me 'I'm still here'. Before I wake up again with my walls back up, I can't be sure that I didn't disappear for a while.

Suddenly there is something new between the bouts of pain. Something unexpected and in my life 'unexpected' always means 'John'.

First the feeling of John's hand on my face infiltrates my pain-filled mind. His warm, strong and caring hands are gently touching my face. The awareness of my body comes slowly, very slowly, back to me.

I feel able to open my up to then tightly shut eyes. John comes into my sight, blurry from the tears I have shed. John is looking with big worry into my eyes.

His mouth is moving. I can hear his voice, calling my name. Not a quiet whisper or a loud shouting, no it his steady voice that gives me a hold. He says the same words over and over again. "Sherlock, focus on me, only me. There is nothing else, just me. I am here. I am here." Repeating himself for what feels like hundreds of times.

The smell of London and the crime scene moves into the background and I can smell John: the tea, the gunpowder, the woolen jumper and everything else that makes John. He must have noticed that I am coming back to myself but neither his eyes nor hands leave me.

 I begin to taste the unique taste of John's presence. How can I describe a taste?… It doesn't matter.

Somehow John is able to build a wall between me and the world of pain. Wrong. He is the wall. All I can sense is 'John'. John Watson who can enter my mind to get me back, like I said: unexpected = John.

As I finally comprehend what he is doing (a bit of understanding here please, thinking is very exhausting in my current situation) I start to fix my own wall. Still focusing on John, only John, everything else can wait. Time has no meaning so I can't tell how long it takes before I can take the first breath without pain and fear. I close my eyes while taking the breath to collect myself and John; he waits patiently for me still holding my head in place. He stopped talking a moment after I closed my eyes as if he knows that I'm back. My body is limp under his touch and there is nothing I would prefer now than to sleep. Sleep while still feeling John's hand. But with the awareness of my surrounding a more pressing thing comes also back: a crime scene with a not too fresh body. I can probably come back later but John will never let me go back to work today even if Mycroft had been here by now.

When I open my eyes I make my decision: no more work for today, just home with John, a fresh tea, relaxing on the sofa with a bit of brainless television. Maybe I will let John choose a movie. I push myself up and look into John's eyes. It's no longer only him I can see; Mycroft stands close to Lestrade who is just a meter behind John. The rest of the scene is empty; someone must have sent the police away. For that I'm really thankful. Of course they all watched me but these attacks are something I can't control differently from emotions or how I appear at a crime scene.

John is sitting next to me; one hand is still on me which takes my attention back to him. He smiles a shy smile at me and I feel a smile of my own building on my face.

"John. I would like to have a warm cup of tea now." At first John's eyes show me a bit of confusion but then he gets up and using the hand that was on my face up to a second ago he helps me up. I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet but John is close enough to catch me if I fall.

We or better John tells Lestrade we are leaving and asks him to bring the case file later to Baker Street. We ride home with one of Mycroft's cars. He knows that a cab is better than the underground but the new and clean business cars my brother has at his disposal are the best in this situation. Less people have let their prints behind in them.

Before we enter the car I stop John with a weak pull on his sleeve. He turns around.  "Thank you, for being my wall." I walk past him and sit by the window in the car waiting for John and Mycroft to follow.


End file.
